Not So Final
by justonemore
Summary: Post the Final Problem
1. Chapter 1

Lestrade picked his way through the rubble of 221B Baker St. for what must have been the fifth time. He rubbed his hand over his face distractedly. He had been there for four hours, and still he had more questions than answers. The investigation was actually moving really rapidly, which made the situation all the more maddening. He really wasn't even supposed to be there. Arson investigation was a specialized field, and Lestrade was grateful that the team had not ordered him offsite, which they could easily have done by rights. Instead, he had been onsite when they discovered the grenade bits, the drone bits, and, finally, the most important bit of news: no bodies. At least they all had a chance of being alive.

Yet, there was no sign of Sherlock or John or Mrs. Hudson. First responders had been there within minutes, and none of the first few witnesses they had found had seen anyone leaving the scene. His calls and texts to Mycroft had gone unanswered, not unusual in and of itself, except that he had always gotten a response from Mycroft when the message was "Sherlock is missing." He had contacted some of Sherlock's network of informants, since they had some overlap with his own. Sherlock's lot were more articulate than his, but also more likely to be high as kites. They were also more tight-lipped, no doubt the consequence of Lestrade's inferior government-allotted budget. Two had alluded to "a job in Richmond", which sounded like Mycroft's place.

The light had gone. Lestrade needed to keep moving, or he would go mad. His constables were canvassing. There was nothing left for him to do here. He crunched through the bits of charred wood and singed book bindings. God, the Holmes boys (and he did indeed think of them as boys. He was willing to admit that this was probably his middle class prejudice against classifying people without spouses, kids, mortgages, or proper jobs as adults). The thing was, that their poshness had always seemed proof against this kind of destruction. Even the criminals they dealt with were posh, with series of clues and elaborate traps. The drone with a grenade fit the pattern, but actually allowing it to go off didn't. This was more like the unbridled anger that he'd seen in the garden variety London criminals that made up half his daily menu: domestic disputes turned violent and drug busts that seemed to continue on at a steady pace, no matter how many dealers he locked up.

Lestrade was worried. Alright, he was always worried, but this was different. Sherlock, John, Watson, Mrs. Hudson – four people just didn't disappear in a cloud of smoke. He wasn't just baffled – baffled he could handle; baffled yielded to wading through financials and phone records. He was willing to admit that he dreaded the thought of their absence from his life, not just because of the cases, but because he thought of them as friends. He got on well with all of them, but if he thought about it, he preferred Mycroft's calm organization to Sherlock's mercurial chaos and John's moodiness. Maybe that was just the age difference. John and Sherlock were like overindulged youth, with all of this theatrical coat swishing and blogging. Mycroft at least seemed to understand that in order to really accomplish something, a certain amount of plodding had to be interspersed with the theatrics. There was also the added bonus that it was dead cool to have a mate with a sword collection.

By the time he reached the curb at the end of Baker Street, he had decided to head to Mycroft's place. He would never get anywhere by going to the Ministry, where Mycroft's assistant usually seemed to perceive him as one step above the man who came to read the gas meter. Two steps on a good day. Dinner would be a couple of protein bars from the newsagent's, not for the first time. With the usual horrific London traffic, it was after eight when he arrived. He'd been here a couple of times for tea, which, with Mycroft, always turned out to be tea and manipulation. Lestrade considered it a point of pride that he hadn't been invited recently. They seemed to have arrived at an understanding.

Lestrade suspected that Mycroft had deliberately chosen this quiet street in a neighborhood that was more unobjectionable than trendy; lower profile for a supposed civil servant. The houses were also detached and spaced apart from the neighbors; much better for security than the crescents of West Ken or Chelsea. The house was dark and quiet. Lestrade tiptoed over the simple laser sensor grid to the front door. He had expected better from Mycroft's team than the factory settings! The locks and security keypad were brand new, with glue from the manufacturer's stickers still visible. What had made Mycroft feel the need to change everything out? Was it something to do with "the Richmond job". He was not surprised that there was no answer when he rang the bell, but his sense of unease grew. He parked his car down the street to watch for a bit, only to realize he had no idea what he was watching for.

It was gone ten when he arrived at his place in Stockwell. After the divorce, he had decided that he would choose convenience over size, so he got himself a tiny flat in a close-in neighborhood. There were a couple of decent locals and on nice days, he could cycle to work, so he was quite happy there, although he hoped his pay packets would be able to keep up with the rent long term. The neighborhood hadn't done much for his love life; he occasionally met a bloke or two watching football, and the odd cute woman doing his weekly shop. He'd begun to see that he really needed to look for good conversation and compatibility first. His divorce had taught him that relying on attraction alone wasn't going to get him something that might last.

He checked in with Donovan at the crime scene. Nothing else had turned up, and the arson team was packing up. Lestrade told her to get some sleep. Lestrade changed and collapsed into bed, but only was able to sleep for a couple of hours. At 2:00 am, he checked his phone for messages. Nothing from Sherlock or John. Why hadn't Mycroft texted at least? Mycroft prided himself on i's dotted and t's crossed. Lestrade thought, slightly resentfully, that he himself should be at least a t. Time ticked by at a slow crawl. He slept fitfully, was roused by his alarm, and was on his second cup of coffee by the time he arrived at his desk.

In hindsight, Lestrade would think of that day as a slow simmer that rapidly rose to a full boil. No one had heard anything. Someone had a lead on Mrs. Hudson's sister, but it turned out she'd heard nothing. Where was Rosie? Lestrade cursed himself for having tuned out all of John's conversations about his family.

At 2:00, there was a knock on his door. Molly Hooper stood there. She usually left after lunch on Fridays, so he was surprised to see her.

"Is Sherlock on a case? I just got the oddest phone call from him?"

"He, John, and Mrs. Hudson are all missing! When did he call?"

"About an hour ago. He did sound really weird."

"What did he say?"

"He – ah- he asked me to recite something."

"I'll need your phone, Molly". He grabbed it and ran it to the IT lads. The call had come from Wales, but they couldn't pinpoint the exact place or tower.

"Deliberately masked," one had said pointedly. That smacked of some Mycroftian national security issue.

After that, the reports went from the surreal to the macabre.

First, the usually routine coastal patrol report said that there were floating bodies and an abandoned ship off the coast in Wales. Lestrade broke open a new roll of Tums.

Then, a report coming out of a place called Sherrinford. It was a level 3 report from MI5, routinely available as part of a newsfeed for New Scotland Yard employees of sufficient rank. Lestrade shut his office door to read the secure email. Apparently, Sherrinford was a maximum security prison for the worst of the worst. This was news to Lestrade, but he had always supposed such a place existed. He hadn't been curious about where it was, as long as it wasn't within a mile of his mum's place.

Another email pinged. It was a level 5 from Lady Alicia Smallwood, and he had been bcc'ed. A Level 5? He was surprised his computer hadn't exploded on the spot. One of the Sherrinford prisoners, a Eurus Holmes, had taken over the prison. So that was it: a Holmes gone bad. Lestrade shuddered. Was it a cousin? An uncle? Was Eurus a male or female name? He continued reading. When he arrived at the phrase "tortured her brothers and a third man," Lestrade, with shaking hands, grabbed his coat, with the intention of dropping everything and heading to Wales. The desk phone rang. It was his DSI, telling him to drop everything and head to Wales.

After a suitable rant about "these bloody Holmeses, who seem to think that no other crime occurs in the entire bloody United Kingdom", his DSI revealed to him that the Sherrinford prison staff was all hopelessly compromised. New Scotland Yard was not only taking over the prison completely, but would have to transport some of the staff for questioning and possible charges. A complete mess in other words. His DSI also mentioned, in an annoyed tone, that one Mycroft Holmes had asked for him personally to orchestrate the change out. Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. If Mycroft was well enough to peremptorily commandeer half of NSY's reserves, perhaps the reports of "torture" had been exaggerated. If this had been any other day, Lestrade would have been flattered that Mycroft had asked for him.

It was not lost on him that no mention had been made of Sherlock and John.

Lestrade went downstairs to the briefing room and grabbed the first three dozen non-wankers he could find. It was one of those instances where the command voice came in handy, and he mentally thanked his late father for passing on the genes.

"You lot, into the vans. We're essentially performing a hostile takeover, so we won't be welcomed with tea and digestives. Prepare accordingly." He gave the drivers the GPS for dock for the boat to Sherrinford. He jumped in his car, with the full intention of blaring his siren for the next 300 kilometers. He'd been in the car about 2 hours when his phone rang. Mycroft. Lestrade pulled over.

"Gregory."

Gregory? My God, this was way worse than he had thought.

"Gregory, whereabouts are you?"

"On the M4."

"You're on your way here…" Mycroft sounded distracted and distant.

"NSY is restaffing the prison, at your request," said Lestrade gently.

"Yes, of course. Gregory, you will need to shift gears, so to speak. The local police have informed us that my sister has been apprehended, and Sherlock and John are safe. They are all currently at Musgrave, our former home. My sister will need to be reincarcerated at Sherrinford. Gregory, it is imperative that no one must be left alone with her or speak to her for any length of time. She…she convinces people to do things." Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically tentative.

"Like releasing her from a supermax prison?"

"Yes, yes. She had the best mind of the three of us, but… the least conscience. She…she killed a child and tried to kill the rest of us by burning the house down. She has been incarcerated ever since. Oh, we used her mind, yes. Little did I know that she was using us too, and ever so much more effectively. Bloody fool I!" Here, he stopped.

"Mycroft," said Lestrade, swallowing, "the reports said torture. Are you…"

Mycroft sighed.

"Largely unharmed physically," he laughed bitterly. "The torture was mostly psychological. "

Lestrade listened as Mycroft spelled out the deaths, the choices, and the few details he had about her collapse. At the end, all Lestrade could say was "Fuck."

"Indeed."

Lestrade roused himself from his horror induced fugue. He had dealt with families who had been through horrible ordeals before, but this was more difficult somehow. It felt personal. He shook it off. All he had to offer was his own ability to do his job, and he had to at least give them that.

"Mycroft, I'll need directions to your family home."

"Of course, of course… I…take the turning at Saltmarsh Rd. Then, ah, Fawn's Way. You can't miss the large burned out ruin."

"Mycroft…take care of yourself."

"I…perhaps the time has passed for that…thank you." Mycroft rang off abruptly.

Lestrade diverted a van to Musgrave, and then sent the other two vans to Sherrinford, with strict instructions to take all guards into custody, except the IT staff needed to get the system up and running.

He blared the siren all the way to Musgrave, ordering a helicopter as he drove pell mell. The locals were already there, and his van of officers soon followed. Lestrade passed out earplugs to his staff and gave them instructions: rotate the team directly exposed to Eurus Holmes every ten minutes, and if she started speaking, hand her off after two sentences.

Lestrade then caught sight of Sherlock and John, and walked over. John was obviously drenched, but oddly calm. Sherlock turned from him to Lestrade.

"I don't think she'll speak again. At least not tonight."

"I just spoke to your brother"

"Is he alright?"

"He's a bit shaken up, that's all. She locked him in her cell." He would have mentioned the part about Mycroft's talking the now aimless guards into releasing him, getting him his phone back, and arranging for half the nation's police to saunter in, but he assumed Sherlock had deduced that by now. Sherlock himself had probably called the locals.

"Mycroft…make sure he's looked after. He's not as strong as he thinks," said Sherlock, with unusual collectedness. The man had been through hell, but Lestrade found him to be more resolute and less blustery. As if he finally understood how things were.

"Yeah, I'll take care of it," he said. Mycroft certainly had not given Lestrade confidence that he was his usual self. He had sounded almost broken. Greg found that he wanted to step in here, to be the steady arm. Maybe he had something else to offer besides the ability to do his job.

"Thanks, Greg."

Greg? There might not be enough therapists in the realm to fix this.

Lestrade told a PC to drive his car to the dock and then joined the group in the helicopter, expecting the worst. The trip was completely uneventful. Even the air had calmed. He was surprised by how little time it took to get Eurus into her cell. She had said nothing. Staring into space and moving almost mechanically, she sat on a chair and remained otherwise motionless. Such an odd contrast with her talkative brothers, despite the fact that she looked like them, with dark wavy hair like Sherlock's and a profile that reminded him of Mycroft's. Just in case, he reiterated his standing order for earplugs.

"Where is Mr. Holmes?" he asked a PC on one of the corridors.

"Some MI5 looking types made him go to hospital. He wasn't best pleased, I can tell you that." No, no, he wouldn't have been.

Security systems were up and running again. He made sure the prison was staffed and the former staffers were loaded onto the boat. Reinforcements from the Home Office and some other agency that it seemed almost illegal for him to know about would arrive throughout the night. He was needed elsewhere now.

When Lestrade arrived at the University Hospital of Cardiff at about 10:00 pm, Mycroft was filling out paperwork to check himself out Against Medical Advice. A tall, pale doctor, who looked like he wasn't used to having his authority challenged, was haranguing him, and a nurse was hovering about, interjecting comments like "most irregular". Ordinarily, Mycroft would have flattened them both with one arched eyebrow and a quote in Latin, but he looked very distracted, and kept looking up from his forms to gaze into the distance. Time for Lestrade to do his movie policeman bit. He took a moment to arrange his badge for maximum effect and swooped in.

"DI Lestrade. New Scotland Yard. Here for Mr. Holmes. Are we ready to go then?"

"Detective Inspector," said Mycroft evenly.

"You aren't taking this man into custody?" said the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height. Lestrade regarded the man coolly.

"Mr. Holmes is assisting in our inquiries, and they are very time sensitive, at least, according to the Home Secretary, Dr. - , what did you say your name was again?"

The doctor huffed something about "patients to see," and hurried off. Lestrade looked at the nurse as if he were pretty certain she had eleven unpaid parking summonses. She clamped her lips tightly and continued to regard them disapprovingly, as Lestrade put a hand under Mycroft's elbow and ushered him out of the hospital's front doors and onto the street.

"I'm just here." Lestrade motioned down a side street. The night was cool, and Mycroft looked pale and clammy. He walked as if he wasn't really seeing where he was going. When they got to his car, Lestrade had to open the door for Mycroft, because he kept fumbling with the latch. Lestrade got into the car, and turned to look at Mycroft. He reached over to put a hand on Mycroft's forehead. The other man flinched. "Sorry, I should have warned you, but your temperature seems really low. I don't have to be a doctor to see that. The staff at the hospital was probably worried you might be going into shock." Lestrade stopped for a moment. Then he continued, not looking directly at Mycroft. "We see that a lot."

"Among victims?" said Mycroft, with a hint of irony in his voice.

"Among people who have seen something traumatic. It can be quite serious. We'll take precautions." Lestrade got out of the car and opened the boot. He returned carrying a rather garish plaid blanket. He draped it over Mycroft. He closed his door and turned on the engine, turning the heater on full blast. He headed for the main road.

"You know, Mycroft, sometimes there aren't any good choices. I know you are used to being in control of every situation, but sometimes we have…limits imposed on us from outside. We do the best we can. It seems like your best isn't good enough, but really, it's just that 'good' isn't an option you've been given." Lestrade stopped. He looked over at Mycroft, who was staring at his wingtips. He knew if he said anything more, Mycroft would probably lose control completely. Some people could hold it together in a crisis, but fell apart the minute anyone showed them some sympathy. Lestrade didn't think some kind of emotional catharsis would really help Mycroft now. He probably needed to sleep.

Lestrade concentrated on merging onto the highway, which took a few minutes. He looked over at Mycroft, who was leaning against the door, his eyelids fluttering. The car was really warm now. A few kilometers later, he had nodded off. Lestrade reached over to put a hand on the other man's forehead. He seemed warmer. Lestrade had to resist a sudden urge to stroke his hair.

Mycroft slept through the rest of the journey, including a stop for petrol and the worst cup of coffee of Lestrade's life. Despite the light traffic at this hour, they arrived at Mycroft's house after 1:30 am, and Mycroft began to stir as the car slowed. Lestrade parked as near as he could to Mycroft's front door, and opened the passenger side door. With a quick glance around for peering neighbors, Lestrade took Mycroft's arm. Mycroft kept dropping his keys and barely remembered his passcode. Lestrade ended up taking the keys and ushered Mycroft inside. In the hallway, Mycroft looked as if he was about to bid Lestrade farewell, but the detective inspector cut him off.

"I think you should sleep some more." Mycroft nodded. He stumbled on the stairs. Lestrade caught him, and half carried him the rest of the way.

"Sorry, sorry," mumbled Mycroft.

"Back in my misspent youth, I had a few flatmates who arrived home the worse for wear. I've a bit of practice at this." Lestrade tried to keep his tone light, but wasn't really sure that was what was wanted. Keeping his arm around Mycroft, although it probably wasn't strictly necessary, Lestrade ushered him into what looked like the master suite. He decided to give Mycroft some privacy, and discreetly repaired through a door on the other side of the room, which, fortunately turned out be the lavatory, with a door to a larger bathroom. A much larger bathroom. Was that a sofa in there?

Lestrade used the facilities, and splashed some water on his face. He needed a shave and about ten hours sleep. Why was he suddenly conscious of how he looked? Best not to ponder the answer to that too closely. He took off his coat and shoes, and carried them out into the bedroom. Mycroft had changed into some black pajamas, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. He looked up when Lestrade entered the room. Lestrade felt a hitch in his chest when he saw the despair in Mycroft's eyes.

"My brother sent you, didn't he?"

"He did. I'd be here anyway, though. He sort of gave me carte blanche." Lestrade hesitated. "Can you sleep?"

"Perhaps. No…I don't know." Mycroft looked at his feet again, a million miles away. Lestrade went into the palatial bathroom and rummaged around. He found a container of some kind of oil. Fortunately, it was labeled in French. He looked at the list of ingredients: apricot and grapeseed oils. Well, it would have to do. He hesitated. He was walking a fine line here. He needed to provide comfort, not pressure.

He went back out, turned out the overhead light, and sat next to Mycroft on the bed.

"Let's see if we can get you to sleep," he said, putting his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. He reached over and began unbuttoning Mycroft's pajama shirt.

"Gregory, I don't think I can…"

"I don't have anything strenuous planned," said Lestrade, gently pushing Mycroft to lie on his stomach. He flipped up the now loose shirt. He put some of the oil on his hands. He began rubbing Mycroft's shoulder blades. Mycroft stiffened initially. Gradually he began to relax, but it took a while. Mycroft was thin but sinewy, probably from all of that fencing, thought Lestrade wryly. That made it easier to discern that he was, unsurprisingly, remarkably tense. Eventually, his muscles began to loosen, as Greg's warm hands ran over them. He sighed slightly.

"Did all of your worse-for-wear flatmates get this treatment as well?" Greg was glad to hear the old Mycroft peeking through the gloom.

"One or two," he said, smiling.

"…wonder they ever let you out of the flat," mumbled Mycroft. His breathing was slowing now. Finally, he slept. Greg pulled the bedclothes over him.

Greg felt relief, followed by a bone weariness. If he tried to drive home now, he'd probably put the car in a ditch within two blocks. Mycroft still didn't seem to be quite safe left alone. If Greg was honest with himself, though, he also just didn't want to leave. The thing he liked most about aging was his increasing fearlessness. A connection with another person was rare enough, and he wanted to see it through. No need to dither around. He took off and folded his jacket, shirt, and trousers, and put his phone and keys at the top of the pile on a chair. He just about made it under the duvet before sleep took him.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft woke early the next morning. For a brief moment, he began to get up as if beginning his usual routine. Then he remembered. The bodies, the deaths – his fault. He felt a dull emptiness. He had caused deaths before, but never without the sense that he was saving 10 lives for each lost. The greater good. These deaths had been senseless, arbitrary. Weren't they then necessarily preventable?

He heard slow breathing next to him. He looked over. Gregory looked quite peaceful, if a bit disheveled. No one but he had ever spent the night here before, and yet Mycroft was not alarmed to see Gregory there. (He was, truth to be told, a bit alarmed about not being alarmed.) He was grateful for the distraction. It was not clear to him when he had come to trust Gregory so much and with so much. It had begun, he must suppose, with the sense that he had had that he could trust Lestrade with Sherlock. At the time, he thought that sense had come with careful vetting, but now he knew that it had been a more… intuitive reaction. He had considered no one else when asking for someone to secure Eurus. It wasn't just the need for organization and discretion. Who else would have asked fewer questions?

Last night, Mycroft had awakened in the night with a gasp, his heart pounding. All he had been able to see was the look of terror in the eyes of those men as they plummeted to their deaths. Then he had felt a hand on his shoulder, and a low voice had said "Mycroft? Alright then. It was a dream, and it's over. Back to sleep." For some reason, Mycroft had allowed Gregory to push him back down on the bed, and he had followed instructions. His last waking memory had been Gregory stroking his hair, something he could not even remember his mother's having done.

Gregory woke then and regarded Mycroft with what seemed a dispassionate look.

"Morning. How are you then?" Mycroft waved his hand in a peremptory gesture.

"I don't really know," Mycroft responded heavily. He picked up his phone from the nightstand. "As I suspected, a summons from my superiors at 'my earliest convenience,' which of course means at their earliest convenience." Lestrade looked about awkwardly.

"I'll need to get in to deal with the lot from Sherrinford, "he said, grabbing his trousers. Mycroft stopped him.

"Gregory, thank you for – for your assistance last night. I won't forget it – any of it."

"No worries." Mycroft could hear that the lightness in Gregory's tone was forced.

"If you wish to shower, there is a guest bathroom down the hall to your left with towels."

"Thanks. You must have a lot of guests"

No, just the one. Mycroft wondered if he would see Lestrade again – like this.

Arriving downstairs, dressed in his usual impeccable three piece armor, Mycroft felt a semblance of himself again. Lestrade was waiting by the front door, in yesterday's shirt, hair damp, finally shaved. Mycroft felt a sudden pang of longing that he tamped down quickly.

"They won't fire you, you know. You have too much on them." Mycroft almost smiled. It was, of course, utterly true. Of course, there were ways of finessing a resignation out of one… Greg spoke again. "Mycroft – I'll come again tonight, yeah?" Mycroft cleared his throat.

"You don't need to…"

"But I'd like to. Sometimes it's easier to deal with this sort of thing if you are not alone. If you have some…distractions, so you aren't living too far inside your own head."

Elvis had rather left the building on that one.

"Alright. I may be late."

"I can't make a lot of guarantees as to time either, but I'll be here." Lestrade impulsively reached over and hugged him with one arm. Mycroft froze. Lestrade swept out the door.

Evening found Mycroft sitting alone in his home theater watching an Ealing Studios film. A simpler time, when the goals of a minor government functionary like himself were clear.

"My dad loved this one." Mycroft jumped about three feet, as Lestrade entered the room.

"Gregory, how did you get in?"

"Factory bleeding settings on your sensors! I'd give your security team an earful if they worked for me. You also gave me your password last night."

"The system was replaced in a hurry."

"So I gathered on Thursday. I reprogrammed your sensors to something a bit more random just now."

"You were here Thursday?" Now Mycroft was puzzled. Oh yes, the explosion. "I'm sorry that your squad was inconvenienced by that unnecessary investigation, Gregory." Mycroft noticed the frown on Lestrade's face.

"It took the arson boys hours of sifting to determine that Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson weren't killed. You weren't answering my texts about Sherlock…" If Mycroft hadn't known better, he would say Lestrade had been worried. Lestrade changed the subject. "I hadn't expected you back this early."

"Nor I you." Mycroft hoped that deflection would work. It did at first.

"I had expected to be tied up with two dozen cases of Sherrinford personnel and miles of testimony to sort out. Instead, I got a call from the CPS saying that the cases had been bargained down to time served, if they all resigned and agreed to seal their records. Your Lady Elizabeth doesn't miss a trick, does she?"

No, thought Mycroft bitterly, she does not.

"So I just had to close out all two dozen cases, and promise to give up a kidney if ever I breathed a word outside those walls." Lestrade stopped. "You look like your day was less cut and dried. I – I brought sandwiches. Why don't you eat something, and then you can tell me what happened."

The deflection wouldn't work forever, then, but the sandwich was something of a reprieve. They watched the last of the film in a companionable silence. When it ended, Lestrade spoke.

"So, your meetings."

"Indeed. " Mycroft looked away. "I have been placed on leave for three weeks. They want a psychiatric evaluation before I return. Ostensibly, this is to deal with my trauma. Really, though they are punishing me, and it will mean a permanent transfer off of Eurus' case." Mycroft sighed "It is perhaps no more than I deserve. I played God, and God does not exist. I cannot help but wonder, though, whether they truly understand with whom they are dealing."

"Do you mean Eurus or you?"

"Both I suppose." My God, he was nattering on like his mother to one of her maiden sisters.

Mycroft thought back to the meeting that morning. His superiors had been displeased with his account, truthful though it may have been. His lapse in judgment in bringing Moriarty to the island, his underestimation of Eurus, and his overestimation of the immunity of her jailers to her presence were all duly noted. Her correct predictions of various terrorist attacks and financial crises were of course, points in his favor, and possibly what saved his job. It galled him though, the way they gleefully picked at his weakness: his family.

"We had always thought you were immune to emotional entanglements, Mycroft. Perhaps you are just human after all." Oh, that was rich coming from Tippy Malahyde. His family had inbred themselves right out of anything resembling a chin six generations ago. Tippy had the intellect of a turnip, and the only reason he wasn't living in a bedsit in Croydon was that his family had had at least six manors, so they just sold off one per generation.

"Maybe that will be for the best. Maybe you need a break. You've been through something traumatic. Your sister tried to get your brother to shoot you." Lestrade broke into his reverie.

"I don't think not working will change that fact. It will only give me more time to think about it." Lestrade nodded.

"After an on duty shooting or the death of a partner, we make an officer take two weeks and see a psychologist. I don't know. Maybe that's too much free time to think. The therapists help, though. Oh, none of the lads will ever admit it, but they help. They are just so neutral. When you are second guessing your own every past move, they can stop you thinking in circles."

Mycroft was skeptical. Every psychotherapist of his acquaintance had, at best, a lower second class degree and a streak of narcissism a mile wide. Still, it was true that talking to someone who had never met his family could be… restful. It was also true that the cognitive behaviorists made it a point to stop one from thinking in circles.

Lestrade continued, "in the meantime, maybe you need a distraction." He moved deliberately close to Mycroft on the sofa. Mycroft's mouth felt dry. He swallowed.

"A distraction?" This was probably a mistake. An entanglement here in his home. With someone he might need to see again. With someone he…well in his immediate circle, and all that. But Gregory was sliding an arm around his shoulders and leaning into him, kissing him, gently at first, but then insistently, and Mycroft found himself responding.

He was also rather surprised. He had deduced that Greg played for both teams, so to speak. Not from any overt signals. Men of their age generally still weren't quite as open in discussing such things as the younger people. Nonetheless, Mycroft had observed a few clues: certain gleam in the eye when David Beckham was discussed, a glance at a passing barman that had lingered a bit longer than necessary, an oblique reference to visiting a particular club in his youth. No, what surprised him was that Greg was a handsome man; Mycroft had certainly noticed that. He had further assumed that Lestrade could have whatever sort of companionship he wanted. Mycroft never really thought about himself as anyone's potential romantic partner, but if he had been asked whether someone like Greg Lestrade would be interested in a liaison with someone like him, he would have assigned it a rather low probability.

Gregory stood.

"Come on, mate, upstairs. I'm a bit too old for sofas. The whole point of growing older is having the sense and cash to use a decent mattress."

Just so.

Mycroft was not without experience, but his assignations had always been fleeting events, free of entanglement. He believed emotional investments to be wasteful of time, but also potentially dangerous. Granted, his proclivity for men was no longer the liability that it had been when he had first joined the Foreign Office. Still, any emotional entanglement was a spot of weakness, a vulnerability that could be exploited, and of course, a distraction. Certainly, he enjoyed his sentimental classic films, but these were a harmless pleasure, were they not? He supposed that a Freudian might say that these represented a subconscious desire for closeness, and then would have prattled on about his mother and her emotional neglect. Freudian hypotheses had, of course, done poorly when tested empirically in actual experiments. These beliefs notwithstanding, Mycroft also believed that allowing himself to become too desperate would be an equally dangerous point of weakness.

Every 6 months to a year, he allowed himself to be scheduled for a meeting or conference in one of the banking capitals: Frankfurt, Geneva, Luxembourg. His club in London had reciprocity agreements that gave him privileges at certain exclusive clubs in other cities. He had found those counterparts a useful place to find like-minded men who were practically pre-screened for their lack of desire to cause him trouble: men with names like Rainer and Andreas, with UBS and Credit Suisse leather portfolios that they placed temporarily on the nightstand, and with tan lines on their fingers that hinted at wedding rings hastily stuffed in the coin pockets of their trousers. They needn't have hidden them from Mycroft. He preferred partners with needs for discretion similar to his own. These couplings were polite and genteel, as well as temporary and clinical.

Gregory though, was not clinical. He brought a warmth with him that Mycroft had never experienced, and his every touch was suffused with regard and affection. Partners did not usually undress him slowly. No one had ever before bothered to kiss his neck or really, to kiss him much at all. The whispered endearments in his ear in French were a complete surprise. He had never really imagined himself as anyone's "cher" anything. Gregory apparently was also a firm believer in reciprocity. Mycroft supposed he should have expected an egalitarian mindset from a Labour voter. (This was it then. He was sworn off Tories for good.) Also, none of his previous assignations had ever pulled the blankets back over him, wrapped their arms around him, and settled in for the night.

"Your French is very good," he murmured.

"My name is LE-strade," said Greg.

"So your father's mother taught you?"

"How did you…"

"Well, it had to be a paternal relative, and mothers are usually better about transmitting cultural heritage…"

"I also studied it in school. Only O-level I bothered with." That bit in Gregory's file had given Mycroft some moments of pondering when he first read it seven years ago. "I already knew I wanted to be a copper. I figured it would be useful. It has been."

"You are referring to your infiltration and arrest of several smuggling rings from the continent – cigarettes and heroin, I believe." He could feel Greg's laughter.

"From now on, I only date men with dossiers on me. Cuts back on the need for small talk. But yeah, it comes in handy to be able to pretend to be Marcel de Marseille ou Bertrand de Bourgogne."

"Has your degree from the Open University been equally useful?"

"Mostly in convincing me to look at a problem from multiple sides," Greg laughed again. "It was the 90's. I'm not sure I can really explain anything I did during that decade."

Quite.

Mycroft could feel himself drifting. Before he slept, he recalled reading the transcript of Sherlock's statement to the police who responded at Musgrave. How, the police had wanted to know, did he get this dangerous criminal to surrender. Sherlock had replied,

"She doesn't really understand how to relate to people, how to treat them or reach them. I had to show her how to regain my trust by recognizing how important my friend was to me. She wanted to do it, because I'm her brother."

Sherlock had figured it out for all of them, how to connect without losing himself. It was too late for Eurus to learn from Sherlock's discovery, but maybe he himself could benefit. He looked up at Gregory. He was willing to try.


End file.
